you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
He straightened slowly, the dry leaves rustling under his hooves sounding like whispers. He tries to listen - tries to make out the message hidden for him in the tapping of the branches, tries to follow the wind’s direction as it tugs urgently at his mane.
But it’s been so long. All Ipomoea can see and hear are the birch leaves falling all around them now like dry, golden raindrops. And it occurs to him then, that the forest seems to be crying.
He draws his gaze away from the knife handle, peering into the grey’s eyes. He had never been as good at reading people as he was at reading flowers, but it seemed to him that those eyes were a little too bright now, a little too wide, and far too blue. His frown deepens, and he almost misses Sarkan’s words as he takes a short, quick step towards one of the trees leaning in around them.
”And what about animals?” His voice is paper-thin, as quiet as the leaves still rustling underhoof as he edges away from the stallion. Ipomoea is suddenly conscious of his own lack of a weapon, but still it doesn’t stop his tongue from forming the next words. ”- Or unicorns?”
For a moment, there is only silence between them, and the rough feel of the bark beneath his shoulder.
And in that silence, the tree is speaking to him not with words, but with memories. The memory of blood soaking its roots, and a gray man walking like a reaper through the grove. The image of a bright steel blade turned red, and the sound of something dying echoing in the woods -
”What did you say your name was?” Ipomoea’s voice trembles like the branches overhead, as he interrupts the memory. His voice trembles like the roots beneath their hooves, struggling to break free of the earth. The magic rushes back into him like the gates of a dam breaking open, and in that instant he isn’t sure if the roaring in his ears is the sound of his own heartbeat or the sound of the forest coming awake, or even if there’s a difference between the two things.
So he lifts his voice high enough to speak over them both. ”I’d like to know, so I can tell your victims’ families who you were.”
And then the roots are breaking free of the soil, and the trees begin to reach for him.
@sarkan
But it’s been so long. All Ipomoea can see and hear are the birch leaves falling all around them now like dry, golden raindrops. And it occurs to him then, that the forest seems to be crying.
He draws his gaze away from the knife handle, peering into the grey’s eyes. He had never been as good at reading people as he was at reading flowers, but it seemed to him that those eyes were a little too bright now, a little too wide, and far too blue. His frown deepens, and he almost misses Sarkan’s words as he takes a short, quick step towards one of the trees leaning in around them.
”And what about animals?” His voice is paper-thin, as quiet as the leaves still rustling underhoof as he edges away from the stallion. Ipomoea is suddenly conscious of his own lack of a weapon, but still it doesn’t stop his tongue from forming the next words. ”- Or unicorns?”
For a moment, there is only silence between them, and the rough feel of the bark beneath his shoulder.
And in that silence, the tree is speaking to him not with words, but with memories. The memory of blood soaking its roots, and a gray man walking like a reaper through the grove. The image of a bright steel blade turned red, and the sound of something dying echoing in the woods -
”What did you say your name was?” Ipomoea’s voice trembles like the branches overhead, as he interrupts the memory. His voice trembles like the roots beneath their hooves, struggling to break free of the earth. The magic rushes back into him like the gates of a dam breaking open, and in that instant he isn’t sure if the roaring in his ears is the sound of his own heartbeat or the sound of the forest coming awake, or even if there’s a difference between the two things.
So he lifts his voice high enough to speak over them both. ”I’d like to know, so I can tell your victims’ families who you were.”
And then the roots are breaking free of the soil, and the trees begin to reach for him.
@sarkan
